


His Good Girl

by Splatx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cock Warming, F/M, Hair-pulling, Lap Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Squirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: He thrusts, one (you see stars), two (white-hot pleasure burns through you), three times, and you throw your head back with a scream, clenching tight around him rhythmically as you soak him, and his eyes widen—you’ve never done that before—grabbing your hair and yanking it to the side so he can set his teeth into the tendons that strain, biting down as he fills you with his seed, voice muffled,“Such a good job, you did so well my dear.”
Relationships: Dutch van der Linde/Reader, Dutch van der Linde/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 160





	His Good Girl

Dutch's hand burns on your hip.

His chin is warm on your shoulder, cheek and breath warm on your face.

He's still for the moment, has been for a while, entranced by whatever Mr. Miller has written. He's been rereading the same page for quite a while, and you struggle to remain still in his lap.

You're stretched out over him, his chest warm against your back, though the buttons on his vest dig into you. His cock is a thick, warm stretch inside you, tantalizingly close to that spot that would have you coming, and it twitches every once and a while. You don't want to distract him while he reads, but you're so close it _hurts_.

You adjust yourself in his lap, trying to get him to move just that little bit, and his hand tightens on your hip, a warning rumbling in his chest as he taps his fingers. So you still, despite how desperate you are to roll your hips and arch your back and ride him, and lean back against his chest, digging your fingers into your pants, lolling your head back on his shoulder.

That damn mustache of his is twitching in a barely restrained grin.

  
  


Ten minutes, and you could kill him.

At the least, he’s started to turn pages again, humming against your back whenever he finds something he particularly likes. Occasionally, he’ll move his hips just slightly, nipping at the bared skin of your neck when you whimper or try to move. He has complete and utter power over you, and he’s reveling in it.

“Dutch?”

You stiffen, while Dutch grins, mustache scratching against your neck. He tugs at your pants, making sure that you are all covered up, and that it will look like you are just sitting on his lap, patting your head. You bite his neck, feeling him flinch, and close your eyes, playing dead.

“Hosea! Come in.”

You could kill him.

  
  


They talk for _forever_. Or, at least, it seems like it. Dutch is more than happy to expound upon Mr. Miller’s words, and Hosea is content to argue back against. From the amusement you can detect in his voice, you are almost certain that he can tell that, at the least, he’s interrupted _something_ , if not something quite so… explicit. Maybe something a bit less explicit. 

It wouldn’t be the first time.

And then they start planning. Arthur and John, you learn, are going to be sent to ingratiate themselves with Tumbleweed’s sheriff, in hopes of getting them to stop hating each other, at least slightly. Micah is going to be sent to see if there is any work to be found in Armadillo (you hope he contracts cholera while he's there), and Lenny and Charles are to be sent to Blackwater to scout out the bank along with some of the girls.

Being Dutch’s girl does, of course, have some benefits.

  
  


When Hosea leaves, you could cry.

Dutch chuckles, purring a “You did so well, my dear,” and reaches to slip his hand down your pants, stroking where you are split wide open around him. Your eyes snap open, and you gasp, jolting and arching your back—you are so, _so_ sensitive, and his fingers come away soaking wet. His grin is pure sin as he slips them in his mouth, humming at your taste.

“My good girl,” he hums contentedly, before dropping his hands to your hips and gripping them so hard you can feel the bones creak. _‘Oh, please,’_ you think, praying that he’ll, finally, fuck you, take pity on you, bring you to completion, and he does.

He raises you up, and brings you back down so hard your thighs sting, and you see stars as his cock slams into your pleasure spot, crying out wordlessly. When he thrusts, it’s almost mindless, his book discarded, each thrust aimed to send white-hot pleasure down your spine, to draw those cries that tear at your throat, and he takes a possessive pleasure in knowing that the gang can hear you, that they know that _he_ is the one making you make these sounds. That all of them know that they can _never_ have you, that they will never be in your place.

Dutch presses his lips behind your ear, nips at the shell of it where he knows you’re most sensitive, and squeezes at your waist hard enough you know you’ll have bruises that’ll last for days. And it’s a deep satisfaction that burrows in your chest—any time your shirt rides up, when you’re riding your horse and you stretch up to aim your gun, or twist around to fire, people will be able to see his claim on you.

He thrusts, one (you see stars), two (white-hot pleasure burns through you), three times, and you throw your head back with a scream, clenching tight around him rhythmically as you soak him, and his eyes widen—you’ve never done that before—grabbing your hair and yanking it to the side so he can set his teeth into the tendons that strain, biting down as he fills you with his seed, voice muffled,

“Such a good job, you did so well my dear.”


End file.
